


My Hands are Tied

by MischiefWolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mob, F/M, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Organized Crime, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefWolf/pseuds/MischiefWolf
Summary: Stiles Stilinski always seemed to get into trouble. He attracted trouble like some sort of freaking magnet. The problem always seemed to originate from Stiles' mouth. he was opinionated, sarcastic, and didn't exactly have a filter to stop his thoughts from escaping. And sure it had gotten the Omega into some much deserved troubling situations in the past. And maybe he really needed to work on it.But honestly, he had no idea how he landed in this situation, kidnapped by one of the most notorious crime families in all of North America. He didn't remember saying something to piss off one of the world's deadliest mobsters. But if he had to take a guess... his mouth was probably what got him in this mess, too. How was he going to get out of it?*I know it doesn't seem like it, but Sterek is the end-game*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing fanfiction--well, that's not incredibly true. This is my first time publishing a piece of fanfiction that I have written and, to be honest, I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. Any and all comments, critiques, or suggestions would be much appreciated. Thanks.

The bookstore at which Stiles worked was a very plain bookstore. It had rows upon rows of novels and biographies, most of which had been sitting on the shelves for a very long time. It was a small bookstore shoved in between a quaint Italian restaurant and a high-end tailor’s shop, and therefore, it was often overlooked and completely missed by most people.

Stiles enjoyed his job. He had always been a bibliophile at heart, loving to read about and research the most random of topics. It was a fact that always drove his teachers insane. Stiles had never been one to pay attention to what his teachers were saying, his mind flitting about in a thousand and one different directions. And Stiles always had this need to move around. Whenever he sat still for too long, it felt like ants were dancing under his skin. And this behavior wasn't acceptable for an Omega, such as Stiles. Omegas were expected to be quiet and docile and subservient and demure and basically everything Stiles wasn't. He had a particular teacher, named Mr. Harris, who particularly enjoyed pointing out Stiles inadequacies as an Omega and as a student. His doctor had given him medicine--more to break Stiles into a stereotype, rather than out of care--but it didn't really help much, really it just made him drowsy. No, the only thing that really stilled Stiles’ darting mind was being wrapped up in a good book or silently doing research for hours.

And that's what initially drew Stiles to the bookstore. It typically wasn't very busy, which meant that any given day he could walk over to any shelf, pluck a leather-bound, and read it at the counter. Beyond that, it paid decently. Maybe not as well as Stiles would have liked, but he made a decent wage. He was saving up, hoping to go to college eventually. A law had been passed three years prior, that finally allowed Omegas to go to university, and Stiles was excited to partake. Social change was upon them. And while the process was slow, it was happening. That really just meant that Stiles had to work as much as possible and still live with his dad, which he didn't enjoy, but that's an issue for another time.

Stiles’ current issue was putting away the new arrivals that the postman had just delivered. 

Stiles pushed a cart, filled with the new books as well as some others that he needed to put away from his readings. Stiles shoved the cart to the row that he needed and stopped. He picked up the top book and read the last name of the author, 'Davis.’ Stiles eyes roamed the shelf looking for the proper place, and his finger followed his line of sight absentmindedly. He started at the bottom and weaved his way up the shelf, eyes finally coming to a stop on the very top shelf. 

“Damnit,” Stiles voiced to himself. He couldn't quite reach the top shelf. Not really. So Stiles made sure to get a firm grip on the book and proceeded to climb the bookshelf, like one of the spider monkeys that he read a book about.

Here's the problem with that scenario: Stiles was clumsy on his best days and spastic on all the others. He had grown out of a lot of it. His teenage years were frightening to witness, but he had finally grown into his own. His lanky proportions had become lithe and graceful-looking. His wiry frame grew, with much work, mind you, into lean muscle. His childlike face, that got his cheeks pinched by every elderly woman in a five mile radius, had matured, growing him into a handsome young man. And yet, graceful was not a word to use when describing Stiles Stilinski. 

So as he clambered up the bookshelf in an attempt to reach the top row, he accidentally rammed his hip into the cart he had been pushing. And then, as if steered by a literature-hating ghost, the cart began to move ominously toward another shelf. 

“No,” Stiles cried, reaching out for the cart. But it was too late. The cart zoomed away. “No. No. No. No.” And crashed into another bookshelf, causing a cascade of books to fall. 

Stiles shoved the book he had in hand onto the top shelf, definitely not paying any attention to where it went. He hopped off the shelf and rushed over to the mound of books on the floor. He examined the catastrophe with a thin-lipped frown. 

The mess seemed colossal and it would really cut into his reading time. He just really hoped that he hadn't damaged any of the books or it would be coming out of his pocket. “Fuck me,” Stiles mumbled to himself. 

“Is that an innovation?” asked a voice from behind him. It was smooth, yet thick, like syrup. 

Stiles jumped, not expecting anybody else in the store. “I'm so sorry,” he apologized, turning to the potential customer. “I didn't hear you enter the store.” Stiles words slowed at the end of his sentence. He was taken aback by the woman standing in front of him.

Stiles eyes glanced over the woman. Well, at least, they tried to. What actually ended up happening was a direct stare at the woman before him. She was beautiful. Stunningly so. She had long golden curls that fell like sunlight and her eyes sparkled like a thousand pieces of crushed glass on the beach. She was wearing a black flapper dress with a low v-neckline that barely contained her ample bosom. Her legs were long and slender, perfect model legs. But if Stiles were to really pick a feature to focus on, it was the woman’s lips. They were apple red, perfect like cupid’s bow. 

Stiles felt the familiar warmth in his eyes, feeling them flash a brilliant gold, signifying to the world that he was an Omega. It was common for Omegas eyes to flash, when they felt an extreme emotion; it was an archaic response that told the stronger and scarier Alphas and Betas know that they were dealing with a weak little Omega and they should proceed with caution. The current emotion that was causing Stiles’ eyes to glow was arousal. It filled up his head with a buzzing that he couldn't quite ignore. To say that his pants grew a little tighter, would have been a simple truth. Stiles smiled at her, a million thoughts running through his head and only about half of them dirty.

Her eyes flashed a brilliant blue, problem more out of instinct than anything. She was a Beta. Good. Stiles didn’t particularly like dealing with Alphas, who thought that he belonged in a kitchen just because of his Dynamic. 

“It’s quite alright,” the woman said, and this time Stiles listened to her voice. It was glossy with just a hint of danger thrown into the mix. “I’m not unaccustomed to a little swearing, and it didn’t bother me.”

Stiles released a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. Society had set upon everyone a certain standard that had to be followed at all times, and Stiles didn’t like any of it. Ladies couldn’t go out unescorted after dark unless they were looking for trouble. Gentlemen we're the only ones capable enough to hold jobs in positions of power, because they weren't controlled by their emotions. It was improper for women to dress revealing too much skin and it was improper for men to swear in front of women. Well, fuck that. It was a bias, antiquated belief system and Stiles could do whatever he wanted. He was just glad that the woman in front of him shared his viewpoint, a little.

“Well, please ignore the mess,” Stiles said with a goofy smile plastered onto his face. The woman giggled a little bit and Stiles practically preened. “I’m Stiles. Can I help you find anything?”

“My name’s Erica,” the woman, Erica, replied with a tempting smile. “And I was wondering, if you had a copy of See You Never by Connor Cromwell. I’ve been to like seven different bookstores and none of them had it.”

Stiles ran a mental tab of the books they had on hand. And although he recognized the title as one that he had read, he didn't know if it was still in stock. “If we do, it'll be over here,” Stiles said, leading Erica over to the small poetry section the bookstore held. She followed without protest, eyes darting across the shelves.   
Stiles found the particular shelf he was looking for and stopped in front of it. His eyes glossed over the titles, looking for the works by Cromwell. “Poetry fan, huh?” Stiles asked while he searched.

“Not really,” Erica replied honestly. “But I really like the works of Cromwell. There's just something in the way he writes that… I don't know. I sound stupid.”  
Stiles countered, perhaps a bit too eagerly, but he couldn't stand by and let a beautiful woman think such folly. “You don't sound stupid. You sound enlightened.” Stiles turned to her with a reassuring smile. 

The woman laughed a little. It was a strange noise, not quite a scoff and not quite a giggle, but somewhere in between.“Enlightened?” she whispered so lowly, Stiles was certain he wasn't meant to hear it. But she sounded amused. “Have you read any of his work?” she continued.

“Yet o’er the morrow and atop the week, show me a smile tongue in cheek-”

“-for morning without you, dull and bleak,” Erica finished the stanza for him. “You have read him!” Her voice was giddy and light. “You’re just full of surprises, aren't you?”

Stiles didn't stop to think what that could possibly mean. The woman had barely known him for five minutes, how would she know whether or not he was filled with surprises. 

Stiles brushed all the thoughts to the side. He found the book he was looking for and plucked it from the shelf. “Here you go,” he said, handing Erica the book. He winked flirtatiously. Why the fuck did he do that? Was he an idiot? The girl was out of his league, so far out of his league they may as well have been playing different sports. Sure, she was a baseball player, but Stiles was more like a professional knitter or something equally as lame.

Luckily, she didn't seem to notice Stiles internal turmoil. “Thanks, Stiles,” she said with a lush-lipped smile as she followed him to the front counter.  
“That’s what I’m here for,” Stiles grinned. He began tallying up the total for the book, running through some mental math.

“Surely, that’s not all your here for,” the beta giggled, her eyes not so inconspicuously roaming up and down Stiles body. “Cute boy like you, gotta help with the sales, right?”

Stiles choked a little bit. She thought he was cute? She thought he was cute! Stiles want to fist pump the air, but that seemed incredibly impolite. Instead he just got a goofy grin on his face and blushed a little bit. What was he supposed to say? He had to play it cool, sophisticated. He had to seem like it wasn’t that big of a deal that this beautiful woman called him cute, and he had to figure out a way to woo her. If he could do it all with the same sentence even better.

“That’ll be thirty-four cents,” Stiles squeaked. Stupid. Stupid. Why did he have to be a such a fucking awkward spaz. 

The woman smiled a little bit and asked a simple question loaded with ulterior motive hidden just behind her apple-red lips. “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

“Ah, yeah?” Stiles asked, raising his eyebrow in confusion. He bent down looking through the drawers that the counter had. He rummaged around until he found something, but it was really just a strip. The Omega handed the piece of paper to Erica and slid across a pen the counter. “Will this work?” 

“Sure,” she said, taking the pen into well-manicured hands and moving the paper so that Stiles couldn’t see what she was writing. Stiles tried not to look at her, he tried to just count the change that she set on the counter, he tried not to be nosy, but he would be lying if he said his eyes didn’t roam to the piece of the paper. She hid it a lot better than Stiles expected. But finally she folded the piece of the paper, before handing it to Stiles. “See you around, cutie,” the Beta gave him a teasing smile. 

Erica sauntered out of the bookstore and Stiles watched her leave, unashamedly staring at her ass. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, with a happy little sigh.

He opened the note that she wrote, really wanting to find out what the beautiful Beta’s message was. The note read:  
Hey cutie,  
Hale Hotel’s main restaurant. 7:00. Be there. 

Stiles choked. Fuck yes. Fuck yes. This time Stiles actually did pump his fist in the air. He had a date. He had a date! Stiles managed to score a date with a gorgeous Beta woman that was so far out of its league, Stiles laughed a little bit. He was kinda giddy at the thought, actually. Nothing could ruin this day. Nothing.  
But then his eyes moved around the store and he noticed the giant mess he had created a few minutes earlier. He still had to clean that up. “Fuck me,” he mumbled to himself, and headed in the direction of the clean up.

...

“You’re a fucking disgrace,” Stiles’ father slurred, a bottle of gin in his hand. 

He sighed. Stiles had just arrived home from bookstore and had been greeted by his Alpha father, smelling of piss and snuggling up to a half empty bottle of alcohol that Stiles knew had not been in the apartment that morning. “Dad, relax. I’m just trying to help you, alright?” He held my hands up in to show that he meant know harm. His father was a violent drunk and by the looks of it he had been drinking all day. The floor was littered with shattered glass that Stiles assumed came from empty beer bottles. His feet crunched as he slowly edged toward his father intent on getting the bottle away from his lips.

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t even want to know where his father got the alcohol in the midst of prohibition. Stiles' father had an uncanny amount of connections from his job as a police officer--Sheriff to be exact--, but now he was using all those criminal contacts in the exact wrong way. 

Stiles’ father stumbled over his own feet drawing closer to his son in the small room. He had to lean against the tattered sofa to keep from falling over. “You ain’t tryin’ to help me. Why ya here, boy? Haven’tchya learnt by nows that I don’t wantchya here. You’re just tryin’ a ruin my buzz, ya lil shit.” His father’s words were filled with acid. They were hurled at Stiles and whenever they hit his skin they burned and sizzled their way into Stiles’ stomach, leaving behind a hurt that only words can create. 

Stiles knew that the words weren’t true. He knew that his father both loved and needed Stiles, or else he couldn't survive. A simple look around the room could have told anybody with half a brain that Stiles was needed. And maybe that’s why he stayed instead of getting his own place--to keep his father alive. Well that, and an Omega couldn’t live in most apartment complexes without at least a Beta as a roommate. You know how dangerous it was for Omegas to be alone on their own. Stiles wanted to roll his eyes at the thought. 

Stiles looked at his father, eyes glazed over from alcohol and pants wet from who knows what. “Buzz? You drank your buzz into oblivion hours ago,” Stiles mumbled, more to himself than anything.

“What the fuck did you just say?” his father asked curtly, his face contorted in anger.

Fuckity fuck. Stiles had a serious problem with keeping his mouth shut. As in he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Ever. Stiles brain to mouth filter had clearly been damaged in the womb, because as long as he can remember he has never been able to keep his thoughts to himself. As soon as a thought popped into Stiles head, it escaped out of his mouth. And Stiles head liked to come up with sarcastic little comments that always seemed to get the Omega in trouble. It was a serious problem that he needed to work on. 

“I didn’t…” Stiles backpedaled as quickly as he could. “Dad, I didn’t… I mean… It wasn’t…”

His father sauntered towards him. His father, tall in stature with broad shoulders and calloused knuckles, domineering over his child, small and lithe and still growing into himself, even if he had made progress in the last few years. With a speed that didn’t seem possible for a man so who had more alcohol in his veins than blood, Stiles’ father slapped the boy. Backhanded him. Stiles winced at the contact, his breath taken away. The resounding smack echoed through the minimally furnished apartment for a moment, before Stiles’ father spoke again. “Don’t you ever fucking backtalk to me, you bastard child.” As close as he was, Stiles’ could smell the alcohol on his breath and he could smell the anger emanating from the Alpha. He thought that he might be sick.

Instinctively, Stiles felt his eyes glow a soft golden hue. Stiles’ father used every inch of height that he had on his son to tower over him. A Goliath to Stiles’ David. Except, this Goliath was clearly winning the fight. Stiles shrunk in on himself; it was a classic Omega instinctual move, being smaller kicked in an Alpha’s instinct to protect rather than to fight. But he fucked up. His mouth once again fucked him over. His father was volatile at best when he had this much to drink and Stiles knew better. He knew better than to work his father up like this. He still had vicious looking bruises, black and blue peppered across his abdomen from their altercation a week prior. And Stiles had a perfect handprint-shaped bruise around his wrist from the night that Stiles’ father quite literally drug him from a study session with the boy, Greenburg, down the street; his father had needed money to fuel his alcoholism and hadn’t known where Stiles was hiding the rent money. 

Stiles took a step back, away from his father, trying to get away from the man. But he tripped on something and fell ungracefully to the floor. His arms flailed and he couldn’t quite catch himself. He groaned at the harsh contact made by the floor. 

His father laughed. Laughed at his son’s weakness and pain. Father of the year right there. “Fucking pussy,” his father guffawed.

Stiles was in a much worse mood than his father, apparently. Stiles wanted to cry, but he wouldn’t let his father see him like that. Stiles wanted to scream, but he couldn’t; his chest was tight with panic, squeezing away his oxygen and his voice. Stiles wanted to stand up and punch his father in the face, but what would that do? Get Stiles a harsher beating, that’s what it would do. So Stiles lay with his back on the floor, limbs scrambled, and gasping on the verge of hyperventilation. 

His father took a step towards him, and Stiles panicked. He scrambled backwards. And he would have kept going if he hadn’t run into the wall of the apartment. He was trapped. Even with the door to his left, Stiles’ knew that if he made any sudden movements his father was likely to pounce, like a bull seeing a red flag. 

“You always were a whiny little Omega bitch,” his father slurred. And if that wasn’t a kick in the nuts. Stiles knew that his father wasn’t exactly thrilled by the fact that Stiles was an Omega, but he didn’t expect his dad would be so openly blatantly rude about his Dynamic. Sure, he wasn’t an Alpha, like every strong Alpha father dreamed of, but it’s not like Stiles had a say in the matter. Stiles always thought that his father was supportive of him; the fact contrary kinda broke Stiles’ heart a bit.   
The Sheriff pointed a finger at Stiles, but missed his aim, as it really pointed to the wall just to Stiles’ right. The man couldn’t see shit in his drunken state. Stiles’ heart beat out of his chest. He was scared. He was always scared when his father got like this. He tried to calm himself to no effect. He was a smart kid, and he tried to think of what to do, but he kept coming up blank. Thinking in the midst of panic was like trying to do juggle with no arms; it simply didn’t happen. 

“You ‘lways were a whiny little bitch,” his father reiterated, “just like your mother.”

Stiles’ panic slammed on the brakes. Anger quickly took its place. Stiles’ mother was a saint. He remembered her calming voice, singing him to sleep with her dainty Polish lullabies, whenever he woke up with a nightmare. He remembered his mother teaching him to skip stones across the lake whenever they went to the park downtown. He remembered his mother fondly. And he missed her often. He remembered watching her in the hospital, watching her get sicker and sicker until her body was frail and pale. She lost her mind, and eventually she couldn’t even recognize Stiles anymore. That’s what hurt Stiles the most.

“Don’t you fucking talk about her!” Stiles yelled. Gone was the rabbit that submitted to being killed and in its place was a wolf. “Don’t you ever talk about her. She was kind and smart and always there for me.” Stiles couldn’t hold his tears back any longer. The tears that had threatened to escape ever since his father slapped him finally poured down his face. “And you never were. I needed someone and nobody was there!” His voice cracked. His face was red, as tears streamed down his cheeks. “You threw away the one person who ever loved you for the bottom of a fucking bottle.”

“Watch it, boy,” Stiles’ father growled.

But no, Stiles would not watch what he said. He never had watched what he said and he never would. No matter what kind of trouble he got himself into, he was going to run his mouth. Especially when his emotions were running so high. “She was twice the person you will ever be. You’re nothing but a drunken asshole who--”

The glass bottle of gin that Stiles’ father had been holding, and nursing from was no longer in his hand. It flew through the air towards Stiles. And while on a normal day, the bottle probably would have hit Stiles--or at least come a lot closer--Stiles’ father was exceptionally drunk and the bottle crashed into the wall a good three feet from Stiles’ head. Still the bottle of gin exploded, sending shards of glass in every direction and splashing alcohol as well. Stiles’ cowered as best as he could.  
Immediately Stiles felt the cool liquid hit his clothes and he the smell of gin suddenly grew stronger. Stiles’ cheek stung and when he reached his hand up, he felt it. A shard of glass was lodged into his cheek. It hurt like hell, even if it was a small piece. Stiles winced as he touched it. He pulled it out quickly, pulling his hand away and noticing the blood the laced his fingers. Stiles’ heart leaped into his throat.

Fuck. His father was livid.

Without thinking too much of the consequences, Stiles stood up and bolted out of the door. His father, too distracted by his now ruined bottle of gin, let him leave. And so Stiles ran, quickly leaving behind the dismal apartment that he called home and the dismal, drunken man he called father.

…

If there was one athletic thing that Stiles could do, it was run. He ran and ran and ran. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, his arteries pumping with blood. His shoes pounded against the sidewalk. His arms at his sides, he ran. It was part of the biology of all Omegas. Alphas were exceptionally strong, so they could fight. Even Betas were pretty strong, definitely able to hold their own. Omegas were physically weak, so they made up for by being agile and fast. So Stiles ran whenever his emotions were really high.

He cursed under his breath. His life was so fucking fucked up. What the hell had he done to deserve this? Living in squalor with a drunk.

Not that his father was even home very much. His father had been building a case against the Hales, the supposed leader of the notorious Triskele, a gang, or rather mafia, of the most hardened criminals and wicked no-gooders west of the the Mississippi River. And by supposed, I, of course, mean that everybody knew it was a Hale enterprise, they just didn't have any absolute evidence to put anyone behind bars. 

Then when Stiles’ mother died, it was very obvious to the Sheriff--but really nobody else--that it was the Hale crime family that somehow murdered his wife. The Sheriff was convinced that his wife was poisoned and that’s why she got so sick. Stiles had to admit that there was an unease to the situation, but murder, really? That was when his father began to lose it. He was convinced that he had gotten his wife murdered and he convinced himself that he could single-handedly take down the entire Triskele. His father spent hours upon hours creating a board of newspaper clippings, post-it notes, and photographs that he had taken. Each piece of evidence connected by a color coded string. Green for solved, yellow for in progress, and red for no evidence or unknown. The board was littered in dozens of red strings, a few yellow, and not a single green.

His father spent most nights out and about in the city, trying to collect evidence that may eventually lead to the Triskele's downfall. Except he kept turning up with absolutely nothing. Days turned to weeks turned to months and he still had nothing on the Triskele or on the infamous Hales. The Hale family was clean, legitimately running several upscale hotels across the nation. And this just pissed his father off more.

It was about a year after the his mother’s death (about five years before this story takes place) that something happened that made Stiles stomach curdle every time he thought about it. The Hale’s owned two hotels in the city. And one night the westernmost hotel burned to the ground. It was tragic, truly. There were dozens of patrons in the hotel at the time of the fire, most of whom perished, burned alive. Most of the Hale family was in the hotel, too. And with a single match the powerful and influential Hales were almost extinct, leaving behind only Derek and Peter Hale to Stiles’ knowledge. 

That was the first night that Stiles’ father came home drunk. And Stiles’ always had the most uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Did his father set the fire? Certainly Stiles had no evidence and didn't think that his father could do such a thing, but… the thought lingered. His father had been slipping a little from reality, hellbent on destroying those he believed were responsible for his wife’s death.

And from that night on, the drunkenness continued, sporadically. Prohibition had been going on for nearly six years at this time, yet Stiles still watched his father lose himself at the bottom of a bottle. Bottle after bottle after bottle Stiles’ father drank. And, as mentioned earlier, Stiles’ father was a terribly mean drunk. Most of the money that Stiles’ father made was spent on booze. And from that point, it was an on and off period of near starvation for the two of them. It was a hard time, so Stiles had to get a job during high school, not that many places would willingly hire an Omega. 

But it wasn’t all bad. At times, Stiles’ father would go straight. They’d rebuild the relationship that the drunken Sheriff had so eagerly destroyed. They got along, doing all the things that a normal family would do. Having dinner together, going to watch the occasional ballgame. But this cycle would only last 6 weeks. Tops.

Then Stiles’ father would relapse and spend a few weeks wasting what little savings they had on liquor and other vices, but yeah mostly liquor. And with all the money gone, Stiles would be forced to find extra odd jobs. The financial situation only stabilized once Stiles was out of high school and got a consistent job at the bookstore, but even then they were always strapped for cash. That’s why Stiles hid some of his money; college wasn’t cheap and he was going if it killed him. He didn’t want to be an Omega housespouse for the rest of his life. 

And yet, despite Stiles determination, the cycle of drunkenness and squalor went on and on. Stiles was tired of it. His father was currently in a state of alcoholism. Which is why he had cursed at Stiles and threw a bottle at his head and why Stiles was currently running.

Running. Running. Running. Running.

And all of a sudden out of breath. His who-knows-how-long of running finally caught up to him. It was like Stiles had entered a vacuum, not only could he not breathe, but all the air in his lungs was sucked out of him. He slowed to a stop, which honestly was a huge mistake. 

Have you ever been running for a long time, like say a few miles, and then stopped suddenly? It’s hell. Because while your running, with all that adrenaline pumping through your system, it’s very easy to compartmentalize how you are feeling. You can put the exhaustion of your leg muscles in its own little box and lock it deep within the recesses of your mind. You can take the soreness in your feet and shove it into a vault, far away from the forefront of your consciousness. Instead, you focus on things like the freedom you gain from running. The wind blowing your hair, the crisp intake of oxygen, the stillness of your mind.

But Stiles stopped suddenly, which meant all of the exhaustion came to him all at once. His feet hurt, his calves hurt, his thighs hurt, hell his chest hurt from breathing so hard all the time. He bent over, putting his hands on his knees, which only slowed down the process of catching his equilibrium. After a few moments bent over, Stiles hobbled over to the brick wall of the building on his right. He rest his hand against the brick for support. He took a moment to just collect himself and breath.

“I fucking hate running,” he mumbled to himself and it was true. He may have been really good at it, a fast and agile little devil, but he didn’t like it. Possibly from the fact that every time he ran it seemed to be that he was running away from something. It made him feel weak. And despite everyone expecting him to be weak, the Omega didn’t like to be considered that way.

Once Stiles caught his breath, he looked around. He was leaning against what appeared to be an upscale apartment building. Across the street was a little boutique next to a french cafe, complete with outdoor tables shaded by oversized umbrellas. The street was clean, no signs of litter or destitution as far as the eye could see. Fucking fantastic. Stiles had absolutely no idea where he was. He looked to be in a more upscale part of the city, which was absolutely not where Stiles lived. Not even when his father had been a law-abiding sober citizen who didn’t spend every last cent of his paycheck on whiskey and gin could they have afforded to live in this neighborhood. 

He looked to his left. He looked to his right. There was not a single marking that could tell Stiles where he was. Northside obviously, but other than that, he had no clue. And Stiles definitely didn’t know which direction he needed to head toward to get back to the Southside. Fuck, he didn’t even know what time it was. Stiles had almost completely forgotten that he had a date. Fuck him. He looked like absolute shit and was sweaty and gross. Did he have time to go home and change? Did he want to face his father again this soon? He looked down at his plain white shirt, complete with an ink stain, and wrinkled up khaki pants. It wasn’t the worst thing he had ever worn. Maybe he could say that he had just gotten off his shift, and apologize profusely for his appearance. Surely, the beautiful Beta wouldn’t fault him for that.

Of course, all of this was a moot point if he didn’t actually get to the hotel. He would just have to swallow his pride and ask somebody for directions. 

Only there really wasn’t anybody on the street. Stiles looked to his right and saw a businessman hurrying in the opposite direction of Stiles. To his left, there was nobody. In all actuality, the only people he saw were at the little cafe across the street. So that’s where he headed, not even bothering to check either way on the street, because it was entirely abandoned. Stiles had a bad feeling about this neighborhood. Something just didn’t sit right with him. Shouldn’t there have been more people? But he swallowed it down and hurried over to the cafe. He had to get to the hotel and the best way to do that was to ask for directions.

There were six tables sitting outside the cafe, three of which were filled with people. One had an old man, reading a newspaper and mumbling to himself; it was the mumbling to himself that kept Stiles at bay. The second table had three burly looking men, the kind of men you expected to be working at a shipping yard, not sipping coffee at a cafe. Stiles didn’t approach that table either. 

The third table had two women seated at it. They were beautiful, actually stunningly beautiful. The older one, yet older isn’t an accurate term as she was at most in her early thirties, had flowing blonde hair that she twirled her fingers through. She gave off an air that she knew she was superior to everyone at the restaurant and Stiles immediately knew she was an Alpha--he didn’t have to see her eyes flash or smell her Alpha pheromones. Pearls adorned her neck, lying against a tight black dress that only accentuated her curves. She was powerful, Stiles could sense it. The second woman was closer to Stiles age, and the more beautiful of the two. She had dark brown hair, that perfectly framed her face. Her porcelain skin looked to be etched from marble, and was only perfected by the bright red dress that she was wearing. The younger woman had the same nose as the older woman. And the same chin. They were obviously related. Sisters maybe. No, the blonde one was maybe a little too old for that. Whatever, the relation didn’t matter; Stiles just need some directions. 

He approached the table. “Umm, excuse me.” The blonde woman stopped mid-sentence and slowly turned towards Stiles, a stone cold look in her eyes. Her lips thinned in a line of disdain. Definitely an Alpha. Stiles felt uncomfortable under her glare. So instead, he focused his attention entirely on the younger woman. The one, who when Stiles spoke, had smiled at him. She looked relieved like he had just saved her from an uncomfortable conversation. 

“Yes?” the brunette asked after a moment of silence. Her voice was smooth and light; it reminded Stiles of almond milk. The kind his mother used to buy, because she was lactose intolerant and they never kept real milk in the house. Nope. Just almond milk. But Stiles always thought it tasted like it had a hint of vanilla in it and whoa! That was a weird analogy. 

Stiles smiled at her, and when the wind blew his way, he smelt the Beta vibes coming off of her. It relaxed him a little bit, knowing that he wasn’t having to stand alone under and Alpha bitch’s glare. 

Stiles shook himself out of his tangent. “Ummm… yeah. I was just wondering if I could ask for directions to the Hale Hotel. I seem to be entirely lost. I was running from… well, it doesn’t really matter now does it. Point is I was running, and when I run I always seem to totally space out and never remember where I’m going. And that seems to be what happened. Cause I have absolutely no idea where I am. And I could just-”

“It’s about eight blocks that way,” the blonde woman said with a flick of her wrist and a point of her finger. If the brunette’s voice was the silky smoothness of almond milk, than the blonde’s voice was curdled milk. It came out with such a finality and such a bitterness that it kinda stunned Stiles into silence. She didn’t like the Hales, clearly, and that made Stiles kinda uncomfortable. He could smell the hatred emanating from her. Apparently, staring blankly at the woman was not the response that she wanted, because she responded with a cold, “You can go now.”

Fuck. Stiles knew that he had a bad habit of rambling, and yeah, maybe he was ogling them just a bit, but damn was this woman a bitch. Total utter bitch. “Actually, I was wondering if you had the time?”

The blonde woman looked annoyed, but the brunette replied cheerily, “About a quarter after six.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled, before turning in the direction the woman had pointed and beginning his trek.

Behind him a voice called out, “Have a nice day,” and Stiles knew that it belonged to the sweet brunette and not the bitchy blonde. 

He kept walking. And when he was almost out of earshot, but clearly not far enough away to hear what was being said, the blonde woman complained, “Why the hell did that Omega think that he could speak to us? It’s revolting. I guess it’s his Alpha’s fault really. Why would you let an Omega roam free without a leash?”

Stiles teeth clenched. “Ignore it, Stiles,” he whispered to himself. “Ignore the bitch.” But really and truly he couldn’t. It hurt to be labeled as someone lesser because of his Dynamic. Not that he wasn’t used to it. No, everybody in the whole entire fucking world looked down on him. Why did it matter that Stiles wasn’t biologically the same as an Alpha? It was who he was. And everyone else could suck a dick for all he cared.

Fuck. He felt his eyes heat up, a golden flash. Stiles was on the verge of tears from the words of some stranger. “Knock it off, Stiles,” he told himself. “You’re acting pathetic.” And with that he stilled his emotions, shoving them deep into the abyss of his heart, hopefully never to be seen again. He threw his hands into his pockets and he just walked down the sidewalk.

Eventually, he left the creepy abandoned neighborhood and entered into a regular one. It calmed him a little. Just seeing people going to and fro, whether home after work or to the grocery store to pick up supplies for dinner. Children laughed and played. Cars drove down the street, honking every once and a while. This was better.  
Until he ran into a solid frame. Or rather it ran into him. 

He grunted, still a little sore from his run and his father’s beatings. A man had clearly just shoulder-checked him. “Excuse you,” Stiles accused, before his brain kicked on and told him maybe that wasn’t a good idea. 

Then Stiles’ nose caught up with him, smelling that the man was an Alpha. Fuck. The man may not have been as tall as Stiles, but he was clearly more broad and muscular. But that wasn’t saying much. A kitten had more muscle than Stiles’ lanky frame. The man had a scowl on his face, that seemed to be permanently attached to it. And he had an air of cynicism that Stiles thought he wasn’t old enough for. Stiles had only seen that amount of cynicism from his grandfather who was the very definition of a crotchety old man, but this guy… this guy was in his early thirties at most.

But more intimidating than the man’s permanent look of disgruntlement were his eyes. They were cold and distant, like a cavern that countless spelunkers had gotten lost in.

“Fuck off, kid,” the man spit at Stiles. Then he turned on his way like nothing had happened, continuing his walk. 

Stiles shook his head. The world was entirely jaded and he was tired of it. He was tired of being treated like shit constantly. “Jackass.” He knew the man couldn’t hear him, but it made Stiles feel just a little bit better to voice his complaints. 

He continued down the sidewalk. The sun was almost set and the chilly night air was starting to settle over the city. Stiles had started to doubt the directions the blonde bitch at the french cafe had given him. But then Stiles turned the corner and he suddenly he was standing in the glory of the most beautiful building that he had ever seen. It truly was at least 20 stories tall, with stunning archways wrapping around the entire area of the building. Gargoyles lined the roof, and they were equally as imposing and beautiful. At the street level, a circular drive was filled with cars--a sign that the Hale Hotel only catered to the most rich and powerful society had to offer--and valets were busy taking people’s cars from them to go park elsewhere.

As Stiles approached, his breath caught in his throat. A woman in a minx coat stepped out of a sleek black car, followed by a man in a expensive black tuxedo. Her arm slipped around his, the two walking together along the red carpet that led to the front door. Diamonds lined the woman's neck and wrists and the man had a shiny new golden watch. 

Suddenly Stiles felt very, very underdressed. He looked down at his clothes, examining the wrinkles and the ink splotches. Yeah. He was definitely underdressed. So he took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. He had a date with a beautiful Beta and he was going to damn well act like it. 

The very rich couple glanced over at Stiles, briefly looked at his clothes and smelling his scent, and then completely looked through him. Stiles was used to it, being a lower middle class citizen and an Omega. Nobody really paid him any attention. Not that Stiles minded too much. He didn’t need other people paying attention to him, especially when he looked like shit. 

Stiles walked down the carpet after the upper class couple. He walked straight to the door of the hotel. But where as the couple before him got the door opened for them by hotel employee, Stiles got a large figure standing in front of him, blocking his entrance. “Sir,” the doorman said, “this hotel is for… respectable people. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“I know how I look,” Stiles consented, “but it’s been a rough day, okay?” The man looked nonplussed. “And actually I’m meeting someone here.”

The man laughed lowly. Stiles cheeks flushed, but from embarassment or anger he couldn’t tell. “Who could you possibly be meeting here?” 

Stiles shook his head. Anger, definitely anger. “Look, buddy. I know that you think you are doing your job and all, but standing in front of a door like a gorilla, blocking a paying customer, isn’t helping anybody. Now if you could just step aside so I-”

“This is an establishment for people of high social status. Run back to your hovel and-”

“High social status?” Stiles asked. “How do you know whether or not I have high social status or not? My clothes are a little messed up, but it’s been a rough day that doesn’t mean anything. Now if you could step aside, I’d like to change into one of my thousand dollar suits and meet my guest for dinner.” Stiles lied well. His eyes were challenging and unwavering. His posture was calm. He could convince this man of anything.

But then the doorman had to go and be a dick. “You’re not of high social status,” the man said, a blue color winking into his eyes, just to drive the point home.

“Because I’m an Omega?” Stiles asked, immediately offended. “I’m an Omega, so I can’t possibly be a successful person!” He was yelling at this point. Gone was the Stiles that stayed invisible and instead it was replaced with the Stiles that always seemed to make a scene. “Let me tell you something, you over-glorified doorstop. I happen to be-”

“There you are,” came a glossy voice from behind the man. Erica stepped around the doorman to look at Stiles. She gave him a quick once-over, but seemed unconcerned by his clothing. Instead, the Beta walked over to Stiles and put her arm around him. “Finstock,” Erica said, addressing the rude doorman, “could you please let me and my date through.”

The doorman’s ill attitude melted away immediately. Gone was the jackass that Stiles had to deal with, or at least the jackass was hidden behind a smile. “Of course, Miss Reyes.” He spoke too chipperly, seemingly a whole new person. “Anything else I can get you, ma’am?”

“Not right now,” Erica stated coolly, leading Stiles inside. Before he was entirely in the doors, Stiles turned to the doorman and stuck his tongue out at him. Okay, so it was a little childish, but fuck that guy.

Stiles turned his attention to the beautiful Beta, whose arm was wrapped around his waist. He smiled goofily, his chest heating up with some emotion he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He took her in entirely. She was wearing a bright red evening dress that matched her lipstick shade perfectly. A red feather accented her blonde curls. She looked exquisite. And for a second, Stiles couldn’t believe that this was really happening. Pinch him, he must be dreaming. 

“Miss Reyes?” he questioned, casually. “You must be a pretty big deal, huh?”

Erica shrugged. “You have blood on your face.” Stiles reached his hand up to his cheek, feeling the cut from the broken bottle and what he assumed was dried blood. Shit, he completely forgot about that. Maybe that’s why everyone was looking at him like he was insane. “Why don’t I take you to my rom and get you cleaned up, before we head down to the juice joint,” Erica said with a wink.

“A speakeasy?” Stiles asked. “Here?” He didn’t really know how to feel about that. He had seen his father lose himself in liquor. Stiles didn’t really want to do the same. He’d never even had a sip of alcohol before.

“Not so loud,” Erica whispered, leaning in close to where her lips almost touched his ear. “Just gonna loosen up with a little giggle water, okay?”

Stiles sighed. One drink wouldn’t hurt him. Stiles nodded and followed Erica to the elevator.

…

Her room was on the twenty-first floor, third from the top. It was a stunning room. Much nicer than anything Stiles would ever be able to afford. The walls were painted a deep red color, almost the color of a Merlot. White crown molding lined the walls. The bed and desk in the room were both made out of a startling mahogany wood, that just accented the walls beautifully. Gold adornments were everywhere, in the chandeliers, the lamps, everywhere. Stiles could have sold his house five times over and still would have never been able to stay in that hotel room. What on earth did Erica do for a living?

Stiles washed up in the bathroom, which again was like made porcelain and marble and all the materials that Stiles definitely couldn’t afford in his own house. He stepped out of the bathroom looking much better than he had a few moments before, but there was only so much scrubbing he could do to his shirt and it was still ink-stained. Oh well. Upon exiting the bathroom, he saw Erica, sitting idly on the mahogany desk and playing with her nails. “Are you ready to skedaddle?” Stiles asked.

Erica looked up, smiling at him devilishly. “Come here first,” she uttered in a glossy tone that made Stiles head spin. 

He approached her, expecting for her to show him something or pull out a bottle of gin and get the drinking started. What he did not expect was a hand firmly planted on his crotch and Erica’s lips latching on to his. At first, he was taken back by surprise, but slowly he melted into the kiss. It started slowly, but quickly developed into something more carnal, hungry. His hands caressed the back of her head, tangled in her hair, pulling her in closer. The two sets of lips pressed together. Stiles thought about how soft her lips were. How he wanted to kiss her more. Her hands found their way to Stiles waist, pulling his whole body impossible closer, until Stiles’ knees bumped against the desk. Their chests aligned, both breathing heavily, but neither willing to stop. Until they had to.

Chests heaving, Stiles pulled back. His forehead rested against Erica’s and he just stared into her eyes for a second. He was sure that his eyes were gold right then, but he, honestly, couldn’t care less. He was incredibly horny. It had been so long since he had had sex and he wanted to. But he was thinking to much about himself, and not enough about Erica. “Are you sure you want this?” Stiles asked, cautiously, never breaking eye contact. “Because it’s absolutely okay if you don’t want to. I will underst-”

“You talk to much,” huffed Erica. She sealed their lips together again. It was like a fire, needy and consuming. Stiles’ hands roamed her sides, feeling her under his fingertips, sending electricity pulsing through him. Erica’s hands made their way to the buttons of Stiles shirt, slowly undoing them. Stiles smiled into the kiss, never breaking it though. Stiles tasted tentatively with his tongue, and Erica received him without a second thought. She tasted… Stiles couldn’t quite find the right words to describe it. She just tasted exciting and fun and everything Stiles needed at that moment. 

The Beta was the one who broke the kiss. “Go to the bed,” she said with a wink, a coquettish smirk framing her lips. 

Stiles was only too eager to comply. He turned to the bed, shucking off his now unbuttoned shirt. His hands reached for the hem of his undershirt and he pulled on that as well. It came over his head smoothly and he tossed aside, not really caring where it landed. “Are you sure about this?” Stiles asked again, his fingers working on his belt. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything. I mean, I would love to do this, but I don’t want to pressure you or anything. We can go downstairs and have a regular date if you want. I won’t be mad.” He had gotten his belt undone, and tossed it aside with his shirt. He really, really wanted this. Wanted sex. Wanted to have sex with Erica. And a mix of joy and arousal pooled in his chest, because he really thought that she wanted it, too. 

That’s why it was such a surprise when she spoke. “Oh, sweetie,” she said in a dangerously glossy voice. “It’s a shame that you’re so nice.”

“What?” Stiles asked entirely confused by the situation. But he didn’t have time to think. All too suddenly, he felt a sharp prick in his neck. He turned his head in time to see a well-manicured hand pushing the contents of a syringe into his body. “What the hell?” he asked aloud. His eyes followed the hand to its arm to… Erica? What was going on?

Stiles brain slowed. Everything was becoming fuzzy, like it was just out of his reach, just on the opposite side of reality. Still he turned back to the Erica, feeling completely exposed without his shirt on. “What the fff-” Stiles could tell that his voice was slurring, it slowed down just as much as everything else was. “You… something in meeee…” he managed to get out, but still his words didn’t work quite right. He pulled away from the Beta, onto his ass. And he could do nothing to prevent it, especially not in his drugged state. He tried to stand, but his limbs betrayed him. The flailed around, listening even less to Stiles brain than they usually did. He was like clumsy squared. The only thing he manage to do was fall even further down, effectively laying on the floor. His mouth moved, his intent to scream for help, but only a gurgle noise came out, his voice box betraying him just like all of his other body parts. 

Slowly, Erica moved to stand over him. But Stiles vision was doubling and tripling. He could see her, but not really. All he really saw was a set of apple red lips, pulling into a smirk.

Then he blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update. I really don't have a good excuse other than just the fact that my life has been crazy. I know this is horrible of me, but I won't be posting for a while after this update. I'm going out of the country for the rest of June, so... But after I get back, I do plan on updating more frequently. I don't want to promise something that I can't deliver, but that is the plan anyway.

Stiles’ woke up slowly and steadily came to the conclusion that he was dead. He had to be. It felt like he was sleeping on a cloud, wrapped in silk and hugs and everything nice in the world. He didn’t feel a bedspring poking into his back, nor was he drenched in sweat from the heat that continued to seep inside from the summer days. He felt content and well-wested. He had to be dead.

He debated rolling over in the bed and going back to sleep, but his bladder told him that would be a disastrous idea. So he opened his eyes lazily, and he didn’t like what he saw. It was a hotel room that he recognized all too well. He recognized the red on the walls and the mahogany of the dresser and the gold accented mirror and fuck. What had happened to him?

Stiles tried to sit up, but his mind was hazy and foggy. With even such a simple motion, his stomach turned with nausea. Fuck. He tried to stand, but found his legs wobbly, his knees almost not supporting his weight. Stiles looked at the ground and it was as though the floor was swaying underneath his feet, moving in a way that increased his nausea. 

Stiles whipped his head around, looking for a washroom, so he could vomit. He found the door and moved toward it semi-hurriedly. As fast as his vertigo would allow him to go. He rushed to the bathroom, not paying any attention to any of his surroundings, and when he got there he threw up. He sat on the bathroom floor, shaking and sweating and unnaturally pale. Stiles felt as though the horseman Pestilence had paid him a visit. So he sat there hugging the toilet, utterly miserable, and with nothing to do, but think. 

He remembered. He remembered the beautiful blonde Beta, Erica, who had been so nice and seductive and did what exactly? Drug him? Stiles gingerly placed his hand on his neck, the place the woman had shoved a needle into. Stiles had no doubt that Erica had drugged him. But why? He couldn’t figure it out. It’s not like he had been unwilling when it came to sex. He woke up in the same hotel room, so it’s not like she was selling him to the highest bidder--because Omega sex trafficking was all too common a practice. Just some minor kidnapping. But for the life of him, Stiles couldn’t think of a single reason why. 

His mind raced, while he sat on the bathroom floor, interrupted only when he needed to vomit again. Stiles sat there for so long, that at some point, his aching and shaking body succumbed to the underlying fatigue and he fell asleep on the cold tile.

…

When Stiles woke again, it was in the same little bathroom that he had passed out in earlier. He didn’t feel good by any means, but good enough to stand up and exit the bathroom for the time being. 

He took a step and heard a clanking noise. Confused, he down and it was the first time he paid any attention to what he was wearing. Stiles had on his undershirt--which he did not remember putting back on after the whole Erica thing--and he was wearing his slacks and he was wearing a manacle. He may have freaked out a little bit at the sight, shrieking--in a very masculine way, mind you. Stiles’ breathing became a little ragged, a little sharper, when he saw that a manacle was secured around his right ankle. He had been too busy earlier, trying not to vomit to notice it immediately, but now that his head had cleared a little he could notice anything else. It was a heavy weight against his ankle and he suddenly felt very, very trapped. 

And suddenly the weight around his ankle wasn’t the only weight that Stiles was battling. A heavy weight fell upon his chest, constricting his lungs, tightening them to the point that it was truly a miracle that Stiles could breathe at all. His head screamed at him, but not in a personification and pain way. But like the little voice in his head was going, “HOLY FUCKING, OH MY FUCK, WHAT HAVE I FUCKING GOTTEN MY DUMBASS SELF FUCKING INTO? GOOD FUCK. I’M GONNA FUCKING DIE AND FUCKING FUCKITY, AHHHHHHHHHHH!” The little voice in Stiles' head was not a wise man at the moment.

Stiles crouched down looking at the manacle ensnaring him and tried to get it off. His fingers were daft and moving in no way shape or form that Stiles willed them to. They were not listening to him. Slowly, Stiles lifted his fingers away from the metal and looked at them. He wiggled them a little and realized that he couldn’t control them, because a creeping numbness was spreading from the tips of his fingers down to his palm. 

“Dammit,” Stiles mumbled to himself. He clenched his hands over and over again, hoping to get the blood pumping in them again. “Breathe slowly, Stiles,” he told himself. “Deep breaths. Now is not the time. You have to get out of here. You have to. You have to.” 

Well, calming down was easier said than done. He sat there for a moment, lungs heaving, body shaking with chills. He didn’t go into a full-blown attack, but he most certainly was not okay. After a few minutes, Stiles convinced himself that enough of the panic had subsided that he could do something about his situation. 

He rose up and his knees buckled. Luckily, Stiles caught himself on the wall before he could go all the way to the ground. Stiles used the wall as a crutch, edging out of the bathroom and looking around the hotel room that he was staying in. He spotted the door to the hallway and almost immediately started making his way toward that door, the only true symbol of freedom in the room. Between one step and the next the chain around his ankle pulled tight. Stiles' foot came to an abrupt stop, but his body thought that it could continue on. It couldn’t. And Stiles tumbled to the floor in an ungraceful display of limbs and noises. Stiles looked between his imprisonment and the door, realizing that the chain was just a little bit short of him reaching the door. No matter how much Stiles reached and stretched and tried to get to the door, he simply couldn’t. 

“Why the hell is this room so big?” Stiles asked nobody in particular. “Who needs a hotel room so gargantuan? Couldn’t have made the room a few feet smaller so I could escape this hellhole?” 

Stiles looked over the room again, which was by far the nicest place he had ever been and was by no means a hellhole. His eyes followed the chain that was attached to him all the way back to one of the feet of the bed. He clambered over to it and tried to get that end of the chain to release. He pulled against the chain as hard as he could. He tried to break the four-poster bed. He tried to lift the bed up, hoping to have the chain slip off the bottom of the foot of the bed. He simply wasn’t strong enough to do anything. 

With a huff, Stiles let out a scream of frustration. He stopped. An idea crossed his head: He was in a hotel room. And a hotel meant lots of people all in rooms right next to each other. So he screamed again. Louder this time. “Help me!” he hollered. He stood up and rushed over to the wall. Stiles started banging against the wall with his fists and stomping the ground with his feet. He wanted to make a racket, a cacophony that awoke the whole damn building and had them all rushing to his room. An Omega, like Stiles, locked up in a hotel room? It would cause a riot. They would tear the bed apart with their bare hands once their instincts kicked in and they just had to rescue the Omega. 

Or maybe, that wasn’t the case at all. Maybe Stiles was just being hopeful and not a single soul would care about him. Afterall, nobody came. Stiles screamed until his voice was hoarse, but no one freed him. Stiles banged on the wall until his knuckles were bloody, but no one burst through the door. And Stiles stomped his feet until his legs gave out and he was utterly exhausted, but no one even knocked to tell him to be quiet. 

He was trapped. He was doomed.

…

Stiles woke up when the door to his hotel room (or rather his cell) swung open. Stiles had fallen asleep on the floor. He had been trying to break the chain or the bed it was attached to or both. He had been trying to get free. Obviously, it hadn’t worked.

No. Stiles woke up on the ground when the door opened. Or rather, a little before the door opened, because of the voices that preceded the entrance. 

“Please don't come in here with me,” a woman's voice rang out. It was a sharp voice, but one that had been pulled into submission. Stiles had only heard her once and he knew that she was destined to rule the world one day. She had a voice that could command and intimidate. Why did she sound so docile, then? It sounded strained and forced and Stiles didn't like it.

Another voice came then. A male voice, confident and strong, too full of itself, “You don't get to tell me what to do, sweetheart.”

“Please,” cried the woman. “The Alpha said that he was not to be disturbed.”

“Then why exactly are you here, darling?” The man asked curtly. Stiles could tell he did not like to be denied what he wanted.

“I'm here to bring him water and food. He'll be dehydrated and when he wakes up from the injection-” 

Stiles lifted his head and turned a little bit, toward the door. His sight revealed a man, the man who had been speaking on the other side of the door. He was of average height and average build, maybe a little more muscular. His hair was slicked down with gel and swept back. At first glance, Stiles thought he looked pretty average, but he had this odd sense of familiarity to him that Stiles couldn’t quite place his finger on. Then, Stiles made a grave mistake. He dared to look into his eyes, black soulless orbs of nothingness. Stiles couldn't differentiate between the man's iris and pupil and that was disturbing. And the way the man stared at him, his eyes seemed to burn a hole through Stiles skin, whittling him down to nothing more than a charred pile of bones. He shivered. 

The man gave Stiles the look that toddlers gave the broccoli their parents were forcing them to eat. It was the cynicism that clued Stiles into where he had seen the man before. He had run into him yesterday, smashed full force into a mega-bitter Alpha and now that Alpha was standing before him. Stiles' stomach flipped at the realization. Because if that man was there yesterday and in the hotel room today, then Erica wasn’t just being a psychotic Beta bitch when she drugged and kidnapped him. That man had been keeping tabs on him. And his kidnapping was premeditated. Which added a whole slew of complications that Stiles hadn’t previously thought about. 

The woman, the one destined to do great things, entered right behind the evil man. Do you believe in love at first sight? Because Stiles definitely didn't, until, of course, he saw the goddess who bolted through the doorway. She was a choice bit of calico, she was. She had eye-catching red, no, not quite red… She had flowing strawberry blonde hair that seemed to fall perfectly into place. She had a sweet, light blue sundress on, and the contrast only made her hair stand out even more. And her eyes, oh her eyes. They were calculating, daring eyes, the eyes of someone that loved who they were and fuck you if you don't agree. Stiles was in love. Desperately in love. 

No, Stiles told himself. You are not falling prey to another pretty face. And you are not catching- Is that the right word?- Stockholm Syndrome. You don't care how beautiful she is… oh, but she's so pretty. So, so pretty. No. This isn't happening. What the fuck is happening? You can't let-

The woman spoke, snapping Stiles out of his spiraling thoughts. “No, Peter.” She was carrying a tray; it had a pitcher on it and a plate with one of those silver dome things covering it. She set it down on the desk, before turning back to the man. “The Alpha gave strict orders that-”

The man, Peter she had said, hissed, “I don't give a fuck what you have to say, sweetheart. The only use your mouth has is when it's wrapped around Jackson's dick.”

Which, wow. Fucking prick. Stiles didn't even know this woman, but holy hell did he feel for her in that moment. I mean, sure, Stiles, felt a little upset about this beautiful goddess apparently already being in a relationship, but that did not give this prick the right to treat her like that. How did somebody think that was an okay thing to say? Stiles stomach twisted at the thought of this man. He was repulsed.

The woman didn't seem much happier than Stiles was. She gawked. Clearly, she was caught by surprise at the sheer audacity of the comment that this guy, Peter, had made. But then… then her eyes narrowed as Peter turned away from her. And if looks could kill Peter would have been staked, decapitated, burned, buried, dug up and burned again for good measure. Stiles was a little afraid of this strawberry blonde wondress. And he suddenly knew he was right when he thought that one day, she would rule the world. 

A “What the fuck?” escaped Stiles lips before his brain to mouth filter caught up to him. Both parties turned toward him. “Who the actual fuck do you think that you are? You don’t get to talk to people like that, much less such a beautiful lady. You’re such a fucking creep.” Peter did not apologize. He did nothing of the sort. And Stiles had to stop and think about what the fuck was wrong with his brain to mouth filter. 

Stiles didn't have time to think about that for very long, though. No, he was more distracted by the fact that the creep, Peter was approaching him and with his face twisted in what can only be described as rage. Stiles shook his head, suddenly realizing the situation surrounding him. He closed his open mouth and calmed his widening eyes. He would not seem as afraid, even though he was terrified.

Peter took another step, and it was almost predatory in nature. Like a mountain lion ready to pounce. Or a wolf stalking a poor little rabbit that had no chance of not getting eaten.

Fuck. Stiles realized he was the rabbit in that scenario. That didn't bode well.

As Peter approached, the beautiful girl turned around and darted off, right out the door. 'Thanks a lot,' Stiles thought. 'I’m in this mess for you.' 

Stiles instinctively moved away from the angry Alpha, scooting himself back as far as he could. It wasn't very far. The bed blocked his path pretty well. But even as Stiles instincts told him to cower, even as the Omega-fueled voice inside his head told him to curl up into a ball, Stiles ignored them. Instead, he wiggled into an upright position. Despite his internal turmoil and imminent danger, Stiles would not show weakness in the face of such a prick. 

Peter was practically on top of him now, standing over him, towering over him. The older man squatted down, so he could look the younger in his eyes. 

And upon closer inspection, Stiles came to the conclusion that Peter was even worse than he first thought. He had the faint traces of scars across his face, three lines from his left eye to his right jaw. They were faded, practically invisible, but they were there. And his eyes… oh, his eyes were definitely more disturbing up close. Peter had this look in his eyes that made Stiles wonder how many people he had killed. And he had a smile that said he had lost count a long time ago.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Peter cooed, “you look so scared. Like a sad little bunny rabbit. Why is that?” Just listening to Peter’s voice made Stiles feel unclean.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I've been kidnapped, tied up, and now have to deal with an Alpha prick like you.”  
Peter's grin grew. “Feisty little rabbit, aren't you?” Peter's eyes sparkled with a light, a plan formulating in his mind. “Don't worry, little rabbit, I won't hurt you.”

“Yeah, because the word of criminals can always be trusted.”

Peter tsked at the comment. “I never liked that word. Never painted me in the right light.”

“Well then, maybe don't go around committing crimes, jackass.” Stiles was beginning to lose control of his emotions. His heart was thrumming in his chest, threatening to break a rib, and adrenaline had muddled his brain. 

Peter leaned in closer at the comment, “Don't try to get cute,” Peter whispered. He leaned over Stiles. Their noses a mere inch apart.

Stiles saw his opportunity and, without thinking of the consequences, took it. He slammed his head forward into a massive headbutt. He focused almost all his force into the older man’s nose. Hopefully, he broke it. Peter groaned and stumbled backward. His crouching position left his balance unstable and he almost toppled over. Almost wasn't quite enough, though. He cursed under his breath and grabbed his nose. Stiles couldn't help a little smirk coming across his face. Take that, asshat.

But Stiles’ victory was short-lived. Peter regained his composure much quicker than Stiles ever would have been able to. And the maniac rushed back to Stiles. “Motherfucker!” Peter hissed, as he lept at Stiles. Peter’s hand latched onto to Stiles’ pale throat, squeezing hard. Stiles’ lungs rebelled, but no air entered them anyway. Peter's grip was strong and Stiles was effectively choked. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe! Stiles entire body rebelled, his throat burned. What the fuck? 

Peter spoke, “I was trying to play nice, but you went and fucked that up, pretty boy.” Stiles would have groaned if he wasn't being suffocated. He knew he had fucked up. He fucked up so badly.

Peter leaned in, breath heavy. “Now. Let's have some fun.” Stiles felt Peter's tongue on his chin and try to recoil in disgust, but really couldn't get away. Peter licked his way up Stiles’ jaw slowly. Peter finally reached Stiles’ ear, leaning in and whispering something in Stiles’ ear.

And then Peter was gone. He was ripped away. And suddenly Stiles could breathe again and he inhaled like oxygen was going out of style. He coughed a little as the sudden rush of air hit his lungs and his neck hurt, but otherwise Stiles would survive.

Stiles silently thanked the man that had saved him before he even looked at him--anyone who separated Stiles from Peter was a godsend in the young man's eyes. He looked up to see the man who had yanked the creep, Peter, away from poor innocent Stiles. The man had grabbed Peter by the back of his collar and was no growling into his face. 

And Stiles looked at him, really actually looked at him, and suddenly he wanted to thank the man out loud, just for the possibility of getting on his good side. The man was gorgeous. Stunningly so. Like unfairly so. Stiles thought that this was the kind of man who they would put in one of those moving picture shows that had just started becoming popular. Sure, he never had the opportunity to see one -- he was much too poor -- but these were the kind of people Stiles would have put in one. He had a strong chiseled chin covered in five o'clock shadow. His spotless white shirt was pulled tightly over broad shoulders and rippling chest muscles. The man was tall, or maybe he just seemed like that because Stiles was still firmly planted on his ass. But if one thing stood out to Stiles, it was the man's nose; it looked like it had been broken several times, but wasn't set right and healed crooked. And yet, he still looked perfect, perhaps even more handsome because of it. 

The man that had just saved Stiles life was looking quite intently at Peter. He held him by his collar, glaring at him with a chilling anger. Stiles shivered when he saw the gorgeous man’s eyes flash a brilliant red, and his neck bared in submission. Silently, Stiles cursed himself and righted his neck. He was not doing this.

Stiles decided, in that moment, that he wasn't afraid of this man. Well, maybe a little afraid. A healthy fear. But not the amount of fear that Peter had.

“Alpha!” Peter exclaimed and he looked like a kid who got caught sneaking out. “I- I had no idea… no idea, that-”

“What did I say about visiting the new prisoner?” This man, this adonis, the Alpha practically growled when he spoke.   
Stiles shivered, from both the Alpha’s feral attitude and the thought that he was someone’s prisoner. Fuck. What had he fallen into?

The Alpha noticed Stiles shiver and turned toward the young man, huddled against the bed and absolutely scared. Their eyes locked. Stiles lost his breath. It was an odd sensation; it felt like all the oxygen was dragged out of him as the Alpha pierced through Stiles' eyes and into his very soul. But it was a two-way street. And Stiles had a direct look into the Alpha’s soul. It was prickly and sour and seemed to be covered in grumpiness, but there was something buried there, something Stiles couldn't quite get to.

But maybe he could have seen through the depths, if Peter hadn't noticed that the Alpha had gotten distracted. When Peter spoke, Stiles was startled. How long had their gaze been locked? “He's a pretty one, isn't he?” Peter asked with a smirk.

The Alpha's attention snapped back to the creep and a low snarl reverberated from the man’s chest. But he didn’t say another word. He only dragged Peter toward the door and out of the cell/hotel room that Stiles was trapped in. Peter’s fear had completely evaporated, and instead, he looked damn pleased with himself. It took all of Stiles’ power to not shout a ‘fuck you’ at the man who had licked his face. But he was already in deep shit and he didn’t want to wade in any deeper. 

As the Alpha drug Peter away, Stiles noticed for the first time that the stunning redhead from earlier was standing in the doorway, silently observing the whole scene displayed before her. She stepped to the side of the door, so the stunning Alpha could manhandle Peter out of it. As soon as the two men were gone, the beautiful woman approached Stiles. She had a kit with her, which Stiles assumed was a first aid kit. 

She sat down next to Stiles, who was honestly still reeling from everything that had happened to him recently. Drugged, kidnapped, awoken, licked, and then defended. What the actual fuckity fuck?

With a frown, the woman pulled something out of a purse, and instinctively Stiles reeled back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she soothed, “My name is Lydia, and I just want to look you over make sure your wounds aren’t too bad. I don’t want to hurt you, but you have horrible chafing all along your ankle and leg. It’s hurting you.” And then with a flick of her wrist, she showed Stiles the key. 

Stiles’ hands immediately went to soothe the skin that had been rubbed raw from the manacle. His ankle hurt and he wasn’t happy about it. “Thanks,” Stiles muttered, because the redhead had been nothing, but kind to him, and he wasn’t going to be rude to her. 

“I know that these injuries are self-inflicted,” Lydia continued. “Or rather inflicted from you trying to pull your leg out, trying to escape.” She looked him dead in the eyes. “If you continue to try to escape in such a reckless manner, you will only continue to hurt yourself. Those chains are built to hold an Alpha.” Her voice was soft, but warning. And then she unlocked the manacle with a click, and the chain clattered to the floor.

Still, Stiles couldn’t help, but roll his eyes at her. “Right,” he scoffed, a little insulted, “because I’m just a dumb and powerless little Omega.” The words came out with a bit more anger than intended. Stiles just hated people who judged him for his Dynamic.

“That is not what I said,” came Lydia’s quick response. “Physical weakness does not equal powerlessness.” She smiled softly and started rummaging through her first aid kit, pulling out various items and setting them on the floor beside them for the moment. Stiles watched her for a moment, his breath a little taken away from how encouraging the woman was to an Omega; it wasn’t something he would expect from his captors. Stiles wondered about this woman’s Dynamic, but only for a moment. 

Then his eyes flicked to the open door, glancing at the prospect of being free. He ran it through his head. Stiles could probably outrun the woman next to him; she had on like four-inch heels, so she wasn’t going anywhere quickly. Then all Stiles would have to do is find his way out of whatever dungeon they were keeping him in. The Alpha had drug Peter to the right, so that’s probably where the exit was. If he snuck out, then he could go find the police and get some help. It wasn’t a horrible plan, but it wasn't a good plan. So many things could go wrong. But it also might be his only shot at freedom. Stiles knew that the first 48 hours of a missing person investigation was by far the most important and he had no idea how long he had been conked out. 

“You’d never make it,” the redhead said nonchalantly as she grabbed some disinfectant and started applying it to the cut on Stiles’ cheek. Stiles looked at her confused. “You were staring longingly at the open door,” Lydia explained, as if Stiles were a complete idiot. “For one, on the other side of that door, the Alpha has just placed a guard there for this very reason. And I know for a fact that he’s packing heat, despite you being our guest.” Stiles didn’t like the way she used the word ‘guest.’ It sounded so casual, like when Stiles aunt used to come visit his mother and stay in their two-story. This was nothing like that. “And second your mobility is still impaired. The drug probably won’t be out of your system for another few hours.”

“How long was I out?” Stiles asked, even more uncomfortable than he was a moment ago. Suddenly, his skin felt slimy and he desperately needed a shower. “I was out for a while, huh? Does that mean…” Stiles couldn’t finish the thought. Oh, fuck.

“Don’t worry. Your virtue is intact.” That only made Stiles feel marginally better. Lydia moved from Stiles' cheek and began spreading a salve on his ankle. “Did Peter hurt you?” And suddenly the soothing, calm tone she had been using was gone entirely. She seemed angry. But not at Stiles, rather she seemed angry at Peter.

“He choked me a bit,” Stiles said, gesturing to his neck, which he assumed was bruised. “And he licked me.” The disgust was clear in Stiles' voice. “He seems like an asshole.”

“He is.” Lydia moved on to rubbing the solve on Stiles’ ankles.

“And, uh, I’m sorry about that comment he made about you earlier. You’re obviously very capable.” Stiles smiled at the woman, a soft smile. She chuckled in response, but it wasn’t a happy chuckle. It was the kind of laugh that someone gave off when they were desperately trying not to cry. 

“You’re the only one who thinks that,” the redhead commented with a slight sigh. 

“What?” Stiles exclaimed. Because what the fuck? Stiles knew that one day this redhead would rule the world. He only hoped that he was alive to see it. 

She leaned in to inspect his neck, look at the bruising or whatever else there was to look at. Stiles took the opportunity to scent her, get his nose as close to her neck as possible. It was curious that he couldn’t already tell what she was from being in a room with her for this long, but maybe her pheromones were just really weak. But this close to her glands, Stiles should have been able to figure out what she was. And yet, nothing. She smelt like nothing. 

“Are you wearing a pheromone blocker?” Stiles asked before he could think about how that might be a bit of a personal question. Clearly the woman didn’t want anyone to know her Dynamic. But for what reason? Stiles shook his head. The only people that usually wore pheromone blockers, a simple perfume or cologne to be applied directly over scent glands and that entirely blocked the distribution of them, were Omegas, who didn’t want to be seen only as sex toys and baby-makers. But Stiles didn’t think that Lydia was an Omega. No chance, no how. “What are you?” he continued when she didn’t respond.

Lydia pulled away from examining Stiles' neck. She responded, “I’m a Pisces.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles sighed. Now he wanted to know, like really wanted to know. Stiles had a curious mind to begin with, but to have the answer to a question within arm’s reach and yet still unattainable. That was pure torture. And the curiosity within him burned all the brighter. “I’m not going to get an answer from you, am I?”

“Take off your shirt,” was all that the woman responded. 

“Uh,” Stiles sputtered. This was weird. Like really weird. And of course, Stiles being Stiles, his mind went to the worst possible places first, and only circled back around to the tamer reasons later. That being said, Stiles was not down to have sex in a prison cell/hotel room, doesn’t matter how beautiful this woman was.

“Not for that reason,” Lydia responded, with a roll of her eyes and a mixture of frustration and disbelief in her voice. “I just want to inspect you for any more injuries.” 

Stiles released the breath that he didn’t know he was holding. His hands found the hem of his shirt, or rather undershirt, and began pulling it over his head. And maybe this woman was right about the drugs still being in his system. Because as soon as his hands came over his head, he got really dizzy, really quickly. All of his motor control seemed to be gone. Maybe daft fingers and weak knees weren’t a part of an impending panic attack like he thought, but rather side effects of the drug that Stiles was injected with. Interesting. Regardless, he was stuck in his own shirt. Fucking fantastic. This woman that he didn’t know had to help him get out of his own shirt. What was Stiles’ life?

The redhead quickly began to examine Stiles’ torso, her hands ghosting over his skin. Stiles squirmed a little bit. “Sorry. I don’t like this much. Not used to being this… exposed,” Stiles commented as her rolling green eyes inched over Stiles exposed chest.

Lydia didn’t respond. She was much too focused on all the different shades of black and blue that was Stiles’ torso. You could practically see Stiles’ ribs, the impressions standing out against the discoloration of Stiles’ skin. “I thought you said Peter didn’t hurt you.”

“Those are, uh…” Stiles didn’t really know how to answer the question, not that any question was actually posed. Just the undertone of a question. He sighed, deciding that honesty was probably best. What was the point of lying to his kidnappers? “Those are from my dad, actually?”

“Hmm,” Lydia hummed, clearly thinking.

“Yeah,” Stiles continued. “He’s a, uh, he’s really mean when splifficated. And he likes to drink, so he’s kinda violent a lot of the time. I don’t even know where he gets the gin. I mean, obviously illegally, but I don’t even really want to know where my father gets it. I just have to deal with the consequences. Most nights, my dad just smells like piss and bootleg. He’ll stumble around for a bit before passing out. But sometimes there’s a bit of a confrontation. And then things get a little messy for me. This one right here,” Stiles gestured to an aggressively purple spot under the right side of his collarbone, “was from me trying to get a bottle of whiskey away from my dad. And this one,” Stiles motioned to a yellowish green bruise on his lower left ribs, “happened when I told my dad to get off his ass and go to work. And then this cut on my cheek is from this afternoon--or yesterday afternoon, maybe--or I don’t know when, but the last time I saw my dad, he through a bottle of gin at me and it cut me just a bit and, I’ve been talking for a really long time, haven’t I? I’m gonna stop now.”

“Your father did this to you?” Lydia asked, with a slight frown. Stiles nodded, afraid if he opened his mouth again, he wouldn’t be able to stop speaking. She sighed and began packing up her things. “I’m all done here,” she said, as she stood. “You should eat the food that I brought you. You’ve been here for just under 24 hours, so you need to eat and drink.” Her voice was soft and she seemed timid again. Stiles hadn’t realized how much he drew her out of her shell, until Lydia reformed her docile, little submissive persona. She shut the door, quietly. 

Stiles whined, “Fuck me and my fucking life.” He plopped down on top of the most comfortable bed that he has ever been in. He cracked his knuckles and let his mind go abuzz with one simple question: How was he going to get out of this?

…

As far as cells go, Stiles was in a damn nice one, but it still didn’t stop him from feeling like a prisoner. No amount of mahogany wood or gold trim could make Stiles feel welcome. In fact, they were making him feel less welcome, thrust into a world he so obviously didn’t belong in and, with the reminder of the metal shackle that had been wrapped around his ankle, a world he couldn't escape.

It was only a couple hours after Lydia left that Stiles got another visitor, or rather, a repeat visitor. Stiles had been laying on the bed, wrapped up in the fine silk sheets that had been provided for him. He had buried himself in a burrito of sadness and had spent the last several hours alternating between crying in a true why-me fashion about the situation he was in and invigoratingly plotting his escape when the tears wouldn’t come anymore. It was a vicious cycle that left Stiles feeling exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

But the door opened unexpectedly during on of Stiles thinking-through-the-situation periods. Someone entered the room. Stiles didn’t even bother unswaddling himself from the sheets and blankets. He most certainly didn’t care about these people and wasn’t going to inconvenience himself for them. But Stiles did listen. He heard a tray being placed on the desk, probably next to the other one, which he hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even looked at. He heard some rustling, some things banged together and moved around most likely. But he never heard the door to his room open again. And Stiles was waiting for it, listening for it. He didn’t like the idea of someone else being in the room with him and was actively listening for their departure. It never came. 

Several minutes went by and no exiting noises ever occurred. Slowly, Stiles poked his head out of the blankets and surveyed the room. They stopped on the dark-haired and scruffy man that stood, leaning against a wall nonchalantly. The man who had saved him from that creep, Peter. The air tight one. 

“Were you just going to stand there, staring at me?” Stiles asked, peeking his head out of the blankets a little more.   
The man’s eyes widened a bit, but overall he looked unsurprised. Instead, he just crossed his arm and stared deeper. “I thought you were asleep,” came the reply. And Stiles really got to pay attention to his voice, deep and husky and rough. 

“That doesn’t make it better,” Stiles retorted. He sat up on the bed, the blankets still wrapped around him. “That actually might make it worse.” The man shifted his shoulders uncomfortably at the comment and he stood up, a little away from the wall. A small smile creeped across Stiles’ face at the movements. The man amused him. He couldn’t quite figure out why, but the man most certainly caught his eye.

“I want to apologize,” the man said with a sour look on his face, “for the actions of Peter. That was a wrong thing of him to do.” His voice was strained, and Stiles guessed that he didn’t often apologize for anything. Surely he would have been better at it if he did.

“No, I should be thanking you. So, thank you. For everything. For stopping Peter.” Stiles shook his head. “But you don’t have to apologize for that prick.” He spit the last word, because just the thought of the man had him feeling the ghost of a tongue across his face. The man didn’t seem too happy with Stiles choice of words though. Immediately, every muscle in the man’s body stiffened and his fist clenched where they rest on his crossed arms. The man’s eyes flashed red. And Stiles’ eyes flashed gold in response, but no matter what his instincts told him, he wasn’t going to submit on this one. He wasn’t going to feel bad for calling Peter a prick. He did find it curious, though, that the man in front of him seemed so defensive of someone he had roughed up just a few hours ago. 

A silence stretched between the two of them. The man’s red eyes locked onto Stiles’, but Stiles’ eyes had faded to their normal whiskey brown color. Stiles knew that he was technically challenging an Alpha by keeping eye contact with him for so long--especially with his eyes still red--but he didn’t care. Not really. 

Slowly, Stiles creeped out of the blankets and moved to the edge of the bed. He wanted to look at the man more upright, like an actual conversation. “I’m Stiles, by the way,” Stiles said, his eyes never leaving the other man’s.

Slowly, the red in the other’s eyes faded to a deep forest color, mixed with both the greens and browns of the trees. “I know,” he said. And that’s all he said. And you better believe that Stiles waited for a better response.

Stiles laughed a little bit when he realized that he wasn’t going to get a more encompassing response. He shook his head slightly. “I mean, I assumed that you knew my name. The reason that I said that was so that you would introduce yourself and then I could know your name.”

The man let out a short harumph. “You don’t want to know my name.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure, I do,” Stiles argued. “Of course, I do. Knowing your name would just be so much more convenient for me. I could stop referring to you as that-fella-that-saved-me-from-that-creep-Peter in my head. Unless, your name is that long, which I highly doubt that it is. Also, you’re the only person that I’ve seen twice, so odds are I’m going to keep seeing you come into my room. And honestly, it’s better to establish some sort of relationship with your captors, so that they are less like to bump you off.”

“You don’t want to know my name,” the man repeated, more harshly that time. 

“I promise you, that I do,” Stiles reassured with a smile. “Come on. It’s super easy.” Stiles stood up and walked over to the man--and it was so much easier to move around without that damn clanking metal thing--who was still hovering close to the wall of the room. He extended his hand toward the other man. “I’m Stiles Stilinski, and you are?”

The man groaned in annoyance, but complied. He took Stiles hand and Stiles' heart fluttered a little bit. This fucking tight Alpha, whom Stiles was most definitely attracted to, had the most amazing hands. Strong and calloused. And the Omega in Stiles just preened in excitement. They shook hands for a moment, before the other guy spoke, “I’m Derek,” he said, “Derek H--”

“--Hale,” Stiles finished for him in a gasp of breath. He yanked his hand away from the other man and backed up several feet. No, no, no. Fuck. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so foolish.? He should have known. Stiles should have fucking known that he was dealing with the Hales. Of course he was dealing with the Hales. Stiles should have recognized the name Peter when he first heard it. And he should have thought more about who had kidnapped him and what reason they would have instead of just how to escape. He’s trapped in the Hale fucking Hotel for heaven's sake. Maybe if he had thought this through a little better the realization that he just shook hands with one of the most successful crime lords of the time wouldn’t have been such a painful one.

Why was it so painful, though? Had Stiles really had so little control over his instincts as an Omega that the first Alpha to come along and protect him had him humming the wedding march? What the actual fuck? No, he was better than that. Stronger than that. Stiles was not about to be some glorified baby-maker. Especially not with a criminal kingpin and--

Fuck! The man in front of him was a criminal kingpin! He was in so much danger. So, so much danger. Stiles mind flooded with a list of worst-case scenarios with the budding realization that he was in a room with a thief and murderer and smuggler and who the fuck knows what else! Kidnapper! He was also a fucking kidnapper. He had kidnapped Stiles and that probably meant that he was doomed. Utterly and totally doomed. Stiles was probably going to end up just another slave through the Omega sex trafficking trade that he knew the Triskele was a part of. Or maybe Derek would just outright kill him.

At least, it all made sense now. In a roundabout way. The Triskele, or maybe just Derek Hale, wasn’t really after Stiles, but after Stiles’ father. The Sheriff had been building a case on the Hales for years now and if he had gotten close… The Hales were trying to use Stiles as leverage against his father, trying to get him to close the case or burn whatever evidence he has or whatever. And Stiles was just caught in the crossfire, like he usually was when it came to his father. 

“So I’m just a fucking bargaining chip?” Stiles screamed. It really wasn’t a question, because he already knew the answer. He was just so fucking done. So done with the crummy situation that he found himself in. Drugged, kidnapped, awoken, licked, and then defended, and all because of his dad. Awesome.

“Stiles-”

“Don’t fucking say my name!” Stiles interrupted still yelling. The man, Derek, didn’t even seem phased by it, like he knew this was going to be the outcome, like he was completely used to his prisoners yelling at him and waving their arms wildly. “You don’t have the privilege of saying my name. You can go and fuck yourself because I just---AHHH!” Stiles hollered in frustration. He didn’t know where he was going with this or what he wanted to say. There were so many questions that he wanted to ask, like why did Derek defend him and why did he care if Stiles knew who he was? And there were so many things Stiles wanted to say, like fuck you and fuck you and… and… and there were probably more but all Stiles could really think of at the moment was fuck you. 

No. Now was not the time to lose control. Stiles couldn’t allow himself to do that. So he took a deep breath and Stiles stilled his emotions, freezing them in place with an arctic wind. And he did ask one question, “Are you going to kill me?” His voice was eerily calm, miles away from his frantic yelling just moments early. 

“Killing you would be counterproductive,” Derek informed him. “We are using you as lev--”

“After?” Stiles interrupted Derek again. And he honestly didn’t give a fuck when the man’s eyes glowed red, in anger from being verbally dominated by a weak little Omega. “After you don’t get what you want, are you going to kill me?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed on Stiles. “We are going to get what we want.”

“You won’t,” Stiles responded and his voice was firm and unwavering. He knew his father and he knew that whatever the Hales wanted, the Sheriff would make sure they didn’t get. Silence overtook the room again, but rather than an awkward/curious silence like the ones before, it was a seething silence. Stiles was pissed. Beyond pissed. But mostly at himself. He had been such a Dumb Dora. Believing he could get out of this, believing that the man in front of him might actually be a good guy, because he saved Stiles. Bullshit. It was all bullshit. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles almost hissed at the Alpha. Derek merely cocked an eyebrow in response. Stiles continued, “What are you doing here? In this room? With me? The crime lord of the underworld should have plenty of underlings and minions to come and deliver food to their prisoners.” Stiles glared at him. He hated him. And he hated everything the man stood for. 

“You’re not a prisoner. You are a guest,” the Alpha defended himself. 

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh at that. Not a humorous laugh, not a pitiful laugh, but a demeaning one. One that said ‘you are a fucking imbecile if that’s what you believe.’ Stiles laughed with malicious intent and Derek didn’t seem to like it. And once his laughter died down, Stiles spoke. “Not a prisoner?” he asked. “Not a prisoner? You really consider me a guest? Is that why I was lured here under false pretenses? Why I was literally injected with a knock out drug? I woke up the first time with a fucking manacle on my ankle, quite literally chained to this place. I was assaulted by your uncle. He licked my face and then choked me until I couldn’t breathe. I know that there is an armed guard standing outside that door,” Stiles threw up a pointing finger, “at all times, for the sole purpose of keeping me locked away in here. So don’t tell me that I’m not a prisoner. How the fuck do you even define prisoner, anyway? Because if this is how you treat your ‘guests,’” Stiles made air quotes, “I would hate to see how you treat your prisoners.”

“You’re not in a cell, Stiles, so--”

“Not in a cell? I am in a cell. So what that my cell has silk sheets and nicely painted walls? I’m locked away and my freedoms have been curtailed.” Stiles glared at Derek, daring him to say something. Say anything. Derek still seemed rather unfazed by Stiles entire meltdown. Sure, he looked frustrated, but more like he was being inconvenienced by having to be in the room rather than actually bothered by anything Stiles was saying. That pissed Stiles off all the more. “Is that the only reason you came here? To try and convince me that I’m not a prisoner?”

Derek huffed. His body was stiff, his muscles bulged, and his eyes steady. Derek was very much trying to take control of the situation. Trying to Alpha posture Stiles. Make Stiles instinctually submit to the oh so superior Alpha. But he wasn’t getting anywhere and he wouldn’t. Not with Stiles all worked up like this. “We are contacting your father today,” Derek informed Stiles, his voice clipped and clearly aggravated by the verbal berating he had just received. It probably made him feel out of control, unbalanced to be spoken to in such a manner by an Omega. Stiles relished in the man’s wild eyes, seeing how upset he made the mobster. “Once he complies to our demands, you can rejoin him. Free of harm.” 

Stiles snorted, but Derek ignored him. Instead, the Alpha gave Stiles one last angry stare, before turning around and making toward the door. Stiles could see the tightness in the Alpha’s muscles and the Omega in him, the instincts he couldn’t always shove away completely, loved it. But Stiles didn't. He didn’t find the man attractive. Not anymore. 

Derek opened the door and with one final glance back at Stiles he said, “You should eat.” And then the door closed behind him. Well, now Stiles most certainly wasn’t going to eat. Not if that’s what Derek wanted.


End file.
